From Icy Waters, A Wild Pleasure: Maine's Briny Belon

By AMANDA HESSER

Published: February 13, 2002

SOUTH BRISTOL, Me.—
ON a freezing February day, the deep blue waters along this shredded coastline have a deceiving stillness. While life seems suspended until spring, beneath the surface is a thriving shellfish garden with scallops, crabs, sea urchins and lobsters.

Last Thursday, Mike Genthner, Mark Zaccadelli and I boarded a beat-up speedboat in search of something more elusive. Mr. Genthner floored it out of the cove and into the broad Damariscotta River. Snow rimmed the banks below a ridge of pine and sprays of gray, leafless trees. And the morning water before us, still unruffled by our wake, appeared languid and glassy, like cold oil. The wind over the boat made the bones in my face feel like a steel mask.

I huddled under the windshield while Mr. Zaccadelli zipped up Mr. Genthner's wet suit and readied his equipment. About a mile up the river near Mary's Island, Mr. Genthner slowed and cut the engine. He fastened a belt of weights around his waist, lifted a scuba tank over his shoulders and without a skipping a beat, plunged backward into the 28-degree water. Fifteen feet down, Mr. Genthner began his grueling workday, gathering wild Belon oysters from their cold, rocky beds. It is a task carried out by a rugged few, who know the beds of the rivers and inlets along the coast as a truffle hunter knows his oak trees, handpicking one of the last wild varieties of oyster in America.

Thirty minutes later, Mr. Genthner tugged on a little buoy, signaling that he had a netful of wild Belons to be loaded onto the boat. Two days later, they would be on the tables of some of the finest restaurants and oyster bars along the East Coast, including Craft in Manhattan and the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal.

Next to creamy, sweet and briny American oysters like the West Coast Kumamoto or bluepoints from New York, the wild Belon, a European native, is an anomaly. It is large and plump, with a potent brininess and a metallic flavor that grabs your attention.

You do not eat Belons casually, slurping them from their shells like peanuts between sips of a cocktail. Rather, they are the main event, or should be, and can easily become an entire meal. They are gutsy and strong and do not need lemon or mignonnette. In fact, I wouldn't bother with an expensive Champagne, either; just one that is gentle and mineral to swing your palate back to the center. If Belons have a single flaw, it is that one sitting ruins you for American oysters, which forevermore seem timid and dull.

''It's a real connoisseur's oyster,'' Riad Nasr, an executive chef at Balthazar, said. ''Belon eaters, that's what they come in and have. They don't mess around with the others.''

In 1994, Farrins Wharf in South Bristol, one of the largest distributors on the East Coast, sold about 200 Belon oysters a year. Now, it ships 15,000 to 20,000 a week.

Demand for the Belon has grown along with a general interest in oysters, as diners have become more adventurous over the past two decades. To sate their appetites, oyster farms have sprung up on coastlines from Maine to Louisiana to the Pacific Northwest.

They are cultivating American varieties like Glidden Point, Spinney Creek and Pemaquid. These oysters are sweet and mild, plump in their uniform shoe-shaped shells, bred by the growers just as a supermarket potato is bred to have fewer eyes and a perfect oval body. Some are even raised in waters that do not meet federal standards for cleanliness, and then run through purification plants.

The wild Belon oyster grows wherever it pleases, in pockets of rivers and shallow bays, where harvesters hunt it down like prey. They are often misshapen, some as large as a dinner plate, others like green, mossy stones.

Belons are not indigenous to the East Coast. They arrived half a century ago, when the Netherlands offered free seed to anyone would pay the transportation. Scientists at the Department of Sea and Shore Fisheries in Maine transplanted the European flat oyster, better known as the Belon, to local waters. They hoped, said Richard Clime, an owner of Dodge Cove Marine Farm on the Damariscotta, that ''if it was planted here, it would thrive and offer an alternative source.''

''So what they did,'' Edward Myers, a local historian, said, ''was hatch seed, European oyster seed, and give them to people with experimental plots. And it took about 10 years for the oyster to adapt. Motherhood is a very strong motivation, and these oysters decided that it was cold but, by golly, they were going to reproduce.''

They did, but growers ran into other problems, Mr. Myers said. They didn't have the resources to run the harvested oysters through the French process called tromper les huîtres, which breaks their tidal rhythm and prevents them from opening up and dying so soon once in the open air. And the oysters didn't reproduce quickly enough.

''They thought it was a failure,'' he said. ''It wasn't. They just didn't realize how long it would take. It took until the 1980's for significant numbers to show up. They had to adapt to tougher winters.''

In the early 1980's, Mr. Myers said, ''a diver going after sea urchins found them on a large boulder at the mouth of the New Meadows River, and this was fairly shallow water, maybe 15 feet, and there was this bonanza of European oysters.''

Now the Belon can be found all along the Maine coast, in places like Maquoit Bay, Quahog Bay, the Damariscotta River, Casco Bay and Blue Hill Bay. The oysters are often referred to as ''Europeans'' locally.

FOR such a hardy, independent shellfish, the Belon is quite delicate. It does not like the deep chill of the Maine winter water, sometimes going into shock, sitting in the water with its shell gaping. It prefers water temperatures of 35 to 40 degrees.

''Scallops can move,'' said John Thomas, Mr. Genthner's oystering rival, who has been diving for 20 years. ''If they don't like where they are, they just pick up and move. They look like a flock of birds taking off from the bottom. The oyster, once it lands, they're done.''

This sensitivity is also part of the reason Belons must be harvested by hand. ''Draggers do more damage than good,'' Mr. Thomas explained. ''They kill more than they harvest. The oysters get flipped around in the mud and suffocate.''

They are also hard to transport. Packers have taken to carefully sealing each shell with a rubber band to keep the seawater from leaking out and to preserve the oyster a little longer -- several days, as against a few hours. Tom Pinkham, a crew member at Farrins Wharf, does it every morning. ''It's not bad until you band about 10,000 a day,'' he said. ''Then it gets a little tiring.'' The Belons must also be packed carefully, laid on seaweed with the rounded side of their shells, their ''bellies,'' facing down.

Unlike farmed oysters, the wild Belon has a regulated season, from Sept. 15 until June 15. Its flavor is best at this time of year, when it is the scarcest. In the summer months, when the season is closed, the oyster spawns and its flavor turns, much like an oil that goes rancid. (Mr. Myers likens the taste to taking a teaspoonful of brass polish.)

''The most important thing with Mike is that he thinks about the future,'' Margaret Farrin said of Mr. Genthner. ''So he takes the small ones and puts them somewhere and keeps track of where he leaves them.

''I wish all the divers were as conservation-conscious, because if we don't change the way we harvest, there isn't going to be anything left. And it has to be a group effort.''

Out on the river this day, Mr. Genthner's buoy glided along the water while Mr. Zaccadelli, the tender, and I trailed behind in the boat. ''He's getting a few or he wouldn't have stayed down this long,'' he said.

After Mr. Genthner delivered a net of several dozen oysters, Mr. Zaccadelli, in orange oil gear and green hip boots, sorted them into totes, or large plastic containers, breaking the oysters from the stones they were attached to, putting aside any smaller than three inches and keeping count of the good ones. He reached for a rusty carbon-steel boning knife wedged in the side of the boat, and carved the number 40 into a piece of wood. ''They haven't invented pen and paper up here yet,'' he said.

''This is my favorite part,'' he continued, slipping the knife into an oyster and wedging it open. ''I eat them all day long. You've got to love them because this time of year, there ain't no money in it.'' It seemed to me a fair enough reward for standing out in the freezing cold. A good day means harvesting more than 1,500; now, 1,000 would be bountiful. Farrins Wharf pays the divers 50 cents an oyster; wild Belons typically cost $3 each in restaurants.

He handed me one, its flesh yellow, gray and pink, soaking in salty river water. Rusty knife or not, it was too tempting: briny and nutty, it had a wash of minerals and metal that stung my palate. I knew what Mr. Zaccadelli meant, and it was even better than sitting on a banquette in a heated restaurant.

From where we floated, the entire river seemed wild. But in fact, much of the Damariscotta is taken up by leases. The marker buoys pop up around every bend. Mr. Genthner changed oxygen tanks several times as we moved from cove to cove, trying to avoid his competition, Mr. Thomas, who was working the other side of the river.

By noon, Mr. Genthner and Mr. Zaccadelli had pulled in about 600 oysters. On the way back to Farrins Wharf, we coasted into a narrow cove to drop the immature oysters into the water, just as Mrs. Farrin had described.

Then back to South Bristol, where Farrins Wharf's dock perches above the water like a great altar. The oysters were hoisted up on pulleys, and dragged into the wharf's packing shed, a small, worn gray building with a crumbling roof and a Pepsi machine leaning against it. The oysters were rinsed in seawater, banded and, barnacles and all, packed for shipping.

Mr. Genthner headed home to sit in his whirlpool bath.

A stainless steel table is the most sophisticated object in the place. A local hotel owner had dropped in to pick up oysters for the weekend. Afton Farrin, whose son, Michael, opened Farrins Wharf, scuffed in, cane in hand.

''My friend describes it as a shack on the water,'' he said. ''And it is. But the sunset is incredible.''

After Sept. 11, Farrins Wharf weathered the effects of what was going on in Manhattan: few people were dining out and those who were, weren't ordering oysters. Things have bounced back, and now the Farrins' sales are ahead of last winter's. But in December, the company suffered a terrible blow. Michael Farrin died of a heart attack. He was 46 years old.

MR. FARRIN had come from a family of seamen. Afton Farrin, 85, was a mackerel and sardine fisherman who worked for many years on dorries, the small boats that the fishermen fill to their thighs with fish. Michael Farrin did that, too. He also worked on lobster boats and went clamming, oystering and ocean fishing, paying his way through college. ''He was digging clams,'' Afton said, ''and his buyer went on vacation.'' That's when he decided to start his own buying company. He had $5,000 and not much else, but other fishermen saw him as a peer rather than a rogue buyer. Fishermen of all kinds flocked to him, and as overfishing plagued the coast, Mr. Farrin saw opportunity in diversity. Now, nine years later, Farrins Wharf buys $600,000 in seafood from fishermen each year.

''We will sell anything that will come out of the water,'' Mr. Pinkham said. Along with Belon oysters, there are sea urchins, periwinkles, lobsters, shrimp and clams.

Mrs. Farrin, Michael's wife, said they have fishermen from 14-year-old boys who help out in the summers to 60-year-old men. But it is just two rival divers, Mr. Genthner and Mr. Thomas, who haul in the oysters. ''I was born on the river,'' Mr. Genthner said. And he was, at the Miles Memorial Hospital, which sits on its banks. ''I've swum just about every inch of shore on this river.'' Oystermen have to. They must know the eddies and tide patterns, and all the obstructions that oysters like to grab onto.

''Right now, the cycle is down,'' Mr. Genthner said. Wild Belons tend to follow a seven-year cycle of reproduction, dipping in the later years. That has made this season especially difficult. All fishing work is tough, but nothing quite tops leaping in frigid water for hours on end. When asked why he keeps diving, Mr. Genthner replied, ''We don't cry enough to be lobstermen.''

He also has a knowledge of the riverbed that almost no one else possesses. And that knowledge, during this low period for the Belon, is priceless.

For Farrins Wharf, many things remain in the air. It needs to keep the loyalty of its fishermen to stay in business while Mr. Farrin's estate is settled.

And the Belon oyster needs to persist -- if not in the Damariscotta River, then elsewhere. Mrs. Farrin says she knows of undiscovered beds, but she will not say where.

WARM MAINE BELON OYSTER GRATINÉ

Adapted from Town restaurant

Time: 45 minutes

4 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced

1 1/2 cups heavy cream

1 1/2 teaspoons Madras curry powder

4 egg whites, whipped into soft peaks

Salt and freshly ground white pepper

1/4 cup chicken stock (more as needed)

1/4 pound (1 stick) butter

1 cup loosely packed parsley leaves

1 cup loosely packed watercress leaves

Juice of half a lemon

2 thin slices bacon, thinly sliced crosswise

2 medium leeks, white part only, thinly sliced

12 large Maine Belon oysters.

1. For glaçage, place half the potatoes in a medium saucepan, and cover with water. Simmer until soft enough to purée easily. Drain, and purée through a food mill. Add 3/4 cup cream and a pinch curry powder. Pass through a fine sieve, and set aside to cool.

2. Whip remaining 3/4 cup cream to soft peaks. Gently fold in whipped egg whites and cooled potato purée; mixture should be light and fluffy. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and set aside.

3. For sauce, combine 1/4 cup chicken stock, butter, parsley and watercress in a small saucepan. Place over medium heat until butter melts and liquid comes to a simmer. Purée in blender until sauce is smooth and brilliant green. Strain, and season to taste with salt, pepper and lemon juice; set aside.

4. For melted potatoes, sauté bacon in a large wide pan over medium-low heat until it begins to release its fat. Add remaining potatoes, leeks and remaining curry powder. Stir, cover and cook until leeks are translucent and potatoes are very tender. Check occasionally; if potatoes are sticking or burning, reduce heat, and add a tablespoon of chicken stock. Remove from heat, season to taste and keep warm.

5. Preheat broiler. In four small gratiné dishes, arrange equal portions of melted potatoes. Place three oysters in each dish and top with a serving of glaçage. Broil until glaçage is lightly browned. Remove from heat, drizzle each dish with watercress sauce and serve.

Yield: 4 servings.

Photos: COLD CATCH -- Mark Zaccadelli, top, sifts through a haul of wild Belon oysters fresh from beds in the Damariscotta River. The oysters are destined for raw bars at restaurants like Balthazar, left, in Manhattan. (Barbara Alper for The New York Times; top, Jared Leeds for The New York Times)(pg. F1); FRONT AND CENTER -- Wild Belons, with their round shells, sit among the oyster selection at Balthazar, above. Right, a diver goes overboard into the Damariscotta River in Maine to gather the briny oysters from their rocky beds. (Jared Leeds for The New York Times); (Barbara Alper for The New York Times)(pg. F4) Map of Maine highlighting South Bristol. (pg. F4)